


Brother Mine

by redherring



Series: Brothers [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Kidlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-14 14:45:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1270387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redherring/pseuds/redherring
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ten minutes," Mycroft said softly, taking the captain's hat from his hand and gently setting it on Sherlock's head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Year 3

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus scenes from [Baby Brother](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1187862) that didn't quite fit the storyline, but had to be written because of reasons. Gratuitous fluff abounds.

"No!"  
  
"Sherlock--"  
  
"No!"  
  
The book was suddenly pushed out of Mycroft's hands and skidded across the wooden floor. Sherlock crossed his arms and pouted. Mycroft frowned and lifted him off his lap, plopping Sherlock down on the floor.  
  
"Don't throw books," he said harshly, picking up his prized edition. "This one is more expensive than you are."  
  
"It doesn't have pictures," Sherlock whined. "I want a book with pictures."  
  
"You can't read picture books for the rest of your life," Mycroft sighed. "Only babies read picture books."  
  
Sherlock scowled. 'I'm not a baby."  
  
Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. "Really?"  
  
"No!" Sherlock yelled, as though Mycroft had said something far worse.  
  
"Hm, well, it looks like you actually _are_ a baby." Mycroft shrugged. "Older children read _real_ books, not ones with pictures."  
  
Sherlock furrowed his brow and reached for the old hardback in Mycroft's hand. "Give me."  
  
Mycroft feigned annoyance and handed the book over. He sat down next to Sherlock, who then scooted into his lap as he opened to the first page. Sherlock stared at it for a minute before getting frustrated and throwing it down on the floor next to Mycroft's leg.  
  
"No!"  
  
"Sherlock, stop throwing the book!"  
  
"I can't do it!"  
  
Mycroft swung Sherlock around on his lap so that they were facing each other. "I could read this book when I was five. I don't think I need to remind you how old you are."  
  
Sherlock crossed his arms again. "But you're smarter!"  
  
Well, Mycroft couldn't really argue with that. "Only because I'm older. When you're my age, you'll be just as smart as me."  
  
"This book's boring," Sherlock whined, slapping the top of the hardcover. "I want a good book."  
  
"This _is_ a good book." Mycroft frowned, picking it up again. "You've only read one sentence. You can't tell whether it's good or bad yet."  
  
"It's stupid."  
  
"Again, you don't know that. And it's not."  
  
"But--"  
  
"Do you know about hobbits, Sherlock?"  
  
Sherlock blinked. "What?"  
  
"Hobbits." Mycroft smiled, knowing he'd found his way in.  
  
"What's a hobbits?" he asked warily, keeping his eyes focused on Mycroft  
  
" _Hobbit_. They're people. Short people, with hairy feet and--"  
  
"I have hairy feet!" Sherlock shoved one of his feet into Mycroft's face with a giggle. Mycroft grabbed his ankle with a scowl and moved his leg back down.  
  
"Sure, yes, fine. I don't need to see, thank you. Like I was saying, they go on adventures with dwarves and wizards and other hobbits--"  
  
"Wizards aren't real," Sherlock reminded him.  
  
"They are in Middle-Earth."  
  
"What's Middle-Earth?"  
  
"Where they live."  
  
Sherlock stared at Mycroft for a long time, apparently trying to determine if he was telling the truth. "Middle-Earth isn't a real place."  
  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Isn't it?"  
  
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but closed it before he had the chance. Mycroft could practically hear what Sherlock was thinking. What did he know about the world? Mycroft was much older and thus more smart. He was old enough to ride a bicycle and read Father's big books in the library. Sherlock couldn't even read this one.  
  
He wiggled around in Mycroft's lap, leaning back against his chest. Sherlock opened the book again, sighed, and started reading.  
  
"In--a--hole--in--the--gr--gru--Myc!" he whined, looking behind him at his brother.  
  
"Ground," Mycroft said patiently.  
  
"In--a--hole--in--the--ground--there--lifed--"  
  
"Lived."  
  
"Lived--a--"  
  
"Hobbit."  
  
Sherlock turned around and looked at Mycroft with wide eyes. "Hobbit!"  
  
Mycroft smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd; all mistakes are mine.


	2. Year 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd. 
> 
> RelyaLestrage wanted sibling rivalry and music, so here it is! Hope you like it. :)

Mycroft stormed off the stage, not bothering to look behind him as his little brother followed. Sherlock was received with a collective "aww," while everyone ignored Mycroft save for a few pats on the back and one or two "good job"s.  
  
Every year, the music students under Monsieur Moreau were required to perform at a recital. Most students played Bach or Beethoven or Handel, but Mycroft had written a piece specifically for the recital. It was a difficult composition, but one he was very proud of.  
  
That is, until M. Moreau decided Sherlock should play it with him.  
  
Sherlock had only been playing violin for a year, and he'd made decent progress. He could play most simple pieces without any problems, but typically M. Moreau wouldn't have allowed first-year students to play in the recital. But, like always, Sherlock was the exception to the rule.  
  
Mycroft had insisted Sherlock practice the piece at least an hour a day for two weeks before the recital. He wouldn't have his stupid little brother mess up his masterpiece. It took him a while, but eventually Sherlock was able to muddle through it without too many problems.  
  
Still, Mycroft had been a bit wary of how Sherlock would perform. He didn't even know if his brother would have stage fright or if he'd freeze up or just throw a fit and refuse to play.  
  
Maybe that last one wasn't too bad.  
  
Regardless, all Mycroft's nervousness was directed towards Sherlock and not his own performance. He knew he'd be flawless, as usual. Sherlock, on the other hand...  
  
As they walked onto the stage, Mycroft took his place as the baby grand in the center. He cast a glance over to Sherlock, who was front right and fiddling with his stand while M. Moreau introduced them. Sherlock glared at him, and Mycroft turned back around quickly, ghosting his fingers over the keys in an attempt to warm up.  
  
Applause. Curtains. Spotlights. Cue from M. Moreau. It was all normal to Mycroft, just an average recital that he'd done so many times before. He played the intro perfectly, but Sherlock missed his first cue to come in.  
  
Okay, no big deal. Mycroft played the section through again, hoping that by the time he started to repeat it, Sherlock would catch the hint.  
  
And he did--two beats too late. Mycroft had to suddenly compensate for the change and backed up so they would be playing the right notes at the right time. He nearly winced at the horrid transition; the last note he'd played had been dissonant, and backing up resulted in a complete mess.  
  
The rest of the song went on well enough. Sherlock slipped up several times, but caught himself and continued without lingering on his mistakes. It wasn't until the coda that Mycroft really became upset with him.  
  
The coda was arguably the easiest part of the piece. It was the first bit Sherlock had mastered, and he'd played it nonstop in between their at-home practices. There was no reason for him to mess up, and when they finally reached it without any other major problems, Mycroft thought they were in the home stretch and relaxed--just slightly.  
  
Unfortunately, that wasn't the case.  
  
The first few notes were flawless, but when they reached a section of quarter notes arranged in triplets, Sherlock played entirely wrong notes. One was so wrong that it cut through Mycroft's attempt to cover up the mistakes and rang out sharply. They muddled through the rest of it, and when the polite albeit quiet applause started, Mycroft left the stage without even looking at his brother.  
  
After the next act had started and the congratulations were over, Mycroft pulled Sherlock to the side. "You're such an idiot," he hissed. "You ruined everything. What's wrong with you?"  
  
Sherlock only looked up at him with wide, watery eyes before running off toward their parents.

__________________________________

A week later, Sherlock had hardly spoken a word to Mycroft. Although he'd all but forgotten the incident, Mycroft was beginning to wonder if his words had hurt his brother more than he'd intended.  
  
Of course, he wasn't sorry he said those things. That would require being wrong. And Mycroft was never wrong.  
  
Still, the silence was uncomfortable. Even their parents noticed that they weren't quite as talkative as before. Mycroft was certain that waiting it out would obtain the best results; Sherlock would get over his little fit, and then they'd carry on like they always had.  
  
On the Tuesday after their recital, Mycroft was practicing a new piece at the piano in the sitting room. It was a bit more complicated than the last one he'd been assigned, and he was fairly involved in it when he noticed a mop of black hair in the corner of his eye. He immediately stopped playing and turned to Sherlock. His brother was holding a sheet of paper close to his chest, but made no move towards Mycroft.  
  
He frowned. "What's that?"  
  
Sherlock looked at him for a moment before taking a step toward him and handed over the paper.  
  
It was a piece of blank sheet music with empty staffs, the type used for compositions. He'd apparently gotten hold of Mycroft's notebook and pulled out a sheet for himself.  
  
But the odd thing was, there were notes scribbled on the staff. Notes in a pattern that Mycroft hadn't seen before. At the top of the page, in Sherlock's awkward scrawl:  
  
 _Sherlock's song_  
  
And in smaller letters underneath:  
  
 _for Myc_  
  
It was a simple composition, written for violin in single whole notes. Although mind-numbingly easy for a thirteen-year-old pianist, for someone at Sherlock's age and experience level, it was rather impressive.  
  
"I wrote it," Sherlock mumbled after Mycroft had been silent for several moments. "It's not as good as yours, but--"  
  
Mycroft whirled around on the piano bench and set the sheet music on the stand without a word. He gave the tune a once-over before playing exactly as it was written, despite his urge to embellish it with a few extra notes.  
  
There was the _snap_ of a case opening behind him, and as Mycroft repeated the phrase, a soft violin joined in.  
  
Sherlock had been practicing his song quite a bit; it was about the same level as the other pieces he'd played, but this time he didn't slip up once. They played through it several times, and when they both stopped, Sherlock smiled at Mycroft before running over and hugging him, violin and bow still in either hand.  
  
Mycroft frowned and looked down at Sherlock before rolling his eyes. "Is that what you've been doing all week? Writing music?"  
  
"Yes." Sherlock released him and stared at him for a long minute. "Do you like it?"  
  
"Well..." Mycroft smiled. "I suppose it's all right."  
  
Sherlock scoffed. "It's brilliant. _I_ wrote it."  
  
"Sure, uh-huh." Mycroft handed the sheet music back to Sherlock, but he refused to take it.  
  
"I don't want it." He shoved it back towards Mycroft with a shy smile. "Besides, I can write way better than that. It was easy." Sherlock bounded off, leaving Mycroft staring at the piece of paper.  
  
The erasure marks all over the staff told him differently.


	3. Year 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the very first thing I wrote for this AU. I haven't changed it since the first draft, so there are probably some errors, and the storytelling is a bit different. Hopefully you get the idea, though. :)

"Myc."  
  
"Go away, Sherlock."  
  
"Myc, can you--"  
  
"Shut. Up."  
  
"But I want to play pirates."  
  
"And I don't."

"Yes, you do."  
  
Mycroft rolled his eyes. He was trying to study for a massive exam, which was of-bloody-course the same time Sherlock wanted to play pirates. The easiest thing to do would be to just ignore him. He'd eventually go away, and Mycroft would be left to his books and his notes.  
  
"Myc," Sherlock whined from the other side of his study's door. "Just ten minutes."  
  
Mycroft didn't answer. He found himself wishing Mummy was home to keep his brother from bothering him, but she was out shopping and wouldn't be back for a good while. He sighed loudly.  
  
"I just want to play," Sherlock said quietly. "Ten minutes, Myc. Please."  
  
No answer.  
  
Mycroft heard Sherlock plop on the ground in front of the door, probably crossing his arms and pouting. He could be a very petulant child, much to his elder brother's chagrin.  
  
"Myc. Out. Now. We're going to be pirates."  
  
And there it was. Sherlock could ask nicely, of course, but he wouldn't do it unless his demands were met. Unfortunately, Mummy met his every whim, and the brat thought Mycroft would, too.   
  
Well, he wouldn't. Not this time.  
  
"Hurry up. I want to play." There was a bang on the door that could only be from a small foot kicking it.  
  
"Don't kick the door, Sherlock," Mycroft called.  
  
"Then come out and make me stop." Another bang, this one harder than the last. There would probably be a dirt print on the back of the door from his shoe.   
  
"Go away!" Mycroft said, raising his voice.  
  
Sherlock kicked the door again, this time using both feet and hitting it relentlessly. "Come out, Myc! I want to play pirates!"  
  
"And I want you to be quiet and leave me alone!"  
  
"I will, after we play." He didn't stop kicking the door, and the constant thumping was giving Mycroft a headache. But Sherlock would eventually stop, if only Mycroft could keep quiet. He'd get bored and go away, finding a book to read or an insect to dissect.  
  
As expected, a few moments later the kicking stopped, but Sherlock still hadn't left. "Myc," he said quietly. "You can be captain."  
  
Oh.  
  
Sherlock was always captain, and Mycroft was always first mate or, if his little brother was feeling particularly upset toward him, just another member of the crew, swabbing the decks. Sherlock always had to be in charge, and the fact that he was willing to relinquish his position of captain was a pretty big deal to the seven-year-old.   
  
Still, Mycroft said nothing.  
  
There was a muted thump at the door, but this one wasn't nearly as loud as Sherlock's kicking. "You can be captain," Sherlock repeated softly, his voice quivering and closer than it had been before. "You can have all the ships you want. Just...please, Myc..."  
  
Mycroft stopped writing and looked up from his books. Was Sherlock...crying? He'd seen his little brother cry before, of course, but he'd never been the cause of it. He wasn't entirely sure how he felt about it, but it didn't give him any pleasure.  
  
He slowly stood up and walked to the door quietly. Yes, Sherlock was indeed crying. Mycroft felt a stab of--what? guilt?--and sighed softly. He rapped on the door before opening it.  
  
Sherlock was standing in front of him, eyes pink and watery. He'd been resting his forehead against the door and staggered back a bit when it opened. He held his wooden sword in one hand, his eyepatch and captain's hat in the other. He looked up at Mycroft, wiping his eyes angrily with his forearm. He knew his older brother thought little of tears.   
  
Mycroft's face softened. He knelt down in front of Sherlock so that they were on eye level. "Ten minutes," he said softly, taking the captain's hat from his hand and gently setting it on Sherlock's head.


End file.
